Quickly, you vault to the side as Jalal and his three subordinates draw pistols from the waistbands of their military fatigues. This causes a half dozen men to hold up Kalashnikovs that seemingly come out of nowhere. Shouting then pervades the warehouse as the situation begins to escalate. The man reaching into his pocket looks wide-eyed at you now, his brow furrowed as if to say traitor. You know you have to say something but you have been so physically anti-social for such a long time that the words don't come out. You dearly wish they would, but they don't. And then you hear the first shot echo through the cavern of the cargo bay. Next to you, young Jalal's handgun is smoking. Instantly you are hit with several high velocity rounds as yells pierce the Aleppan neighborhood. When you fall to the ground, the last thing you see in the man's hand in front of you is not a pistol at the ready, nor an explosive vest rigged to a cellphone. It isn't even a walkie talkie. The last thing you see before your vision wipes for good is a crumpled tissue that the man starts to use, cleaning the sand from one nostril and then, slowly, from the other.